"Mike Finch, there's a limit to how much you can bullshit. My husband booked this Emperor Suite with his VIP membership. What does that have to do with you?"
"Look at yourself—delivery boy outfit, loafers. If you weren't riding our coattails, would you even be allowed in a place this upscale?"
Her words drew a wave of laughter. The looks people shot me now carried open contempt.
I waved it off, a cold smile playing at my lips.
"So what you're saying is... I should be grateful to be here with you people?"
Alberta scoffed and gestured at the spread on the table.
"Obviously."
"Without me, could you afford this abalone? This lobster? This Moutai?"
I lifted my head slowly, the corner of my mouth curling upward.
"Alberta, you really haven't seen much of the world, have you?"
"This meal? At my house, this is what we feed the help. I wouldn't touch it."
The room burst into another round of mockery.
"Mike, I'm begging you to stop embarrassing yourself. You're bottom-tier—without Alberta, you couldn't even get through the front door!"
"Exactly! If she hadn't specifically asked us to invite you, I wouldn't have bothered calling!"
"Just down three glasses and apologize to her already. At least you'll get some free Moutai out of it!"
The jeers came from every direction.
I didn't hear a single one.
Because everything I said was the truth.
If I hadn't wanted to spare my old classmates some embarrassment, I would have told them long ago that Pinecrest Pavilion was my property.
Seeing my silence, Alberta walked over with her wine glass and stopped in front of me.
"Do you know why I dumped you back then?" She tilted her head, lips curling. "A man with no power shouldn't pretend to be something he's not."
She thrust the glass toward me. "Drink this, and I'll pretend none of this ever happened."
I rose slowly, meeting her gaze head-on.
"Alberta." My voice was quiet. "I showed you a little courtesy, and you actually think I'm still that lovesick nobody who would've done anything for you four years ago?"
Without breaking eye contact, I called toward the door:
"Waiter—bring me the menu."
I let the words land.
"Tonight, the entire bill is on me."
The room went still.
A man in a tailored suit stepped through the doorway and stopped before me, hands clasped, posture deferential. It was Chester Bell, the floor manager of Pinecrest Pavilion. I'd met him once before, when I'd arranged this private room.